


I'm Dreaming of...

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Arthur deduces things, Christmas, Douglas underestimates the amount of cheer in the average Arthur Shappey, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:03:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Christmases that didn't go so well for Douglas, and one that was extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Red Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of thanks to c3mf, who was the supplier of many good ideas and encouragement.

The tree has no ornaments, save the handmade scraps of paper and ice lolly sticks glued together with copious amounts of glitter from well-meaning primary school teachers. There aren’t any presents under it, but so far he’s managed to quell the mini rebellion of his brothers and sisters by explaining that all their presents will appear at the same time on Christmas morning, because Santa likes to be sneaky like that. They believe him; now it’s just down to making that lie come true.

Douglas scrimps and saves and manages to get everything on his siblings’ lists, even though it means burning his hand to pull their letters out of the fire. From the charred remains, he’s able to make out enough of the items to make a list, and from that he figures exactly how much he has to charge for odd jobs around the neighborhood to make it happen.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t count on the greediness of Mr. Lundswell, the owner of the only store close enough for Douglas to walk to that would have what he wanted. When he goes in, three days before Christmas to buy the last present, a small train to add to Geoff’s collection, he finds the price a whole six pounds more than he has in his pockets, and he’s already cleaned out his usual hiding spots for money. He nearly cries, frustrated at his inability to do this one simple task.

No amount of begging or pleading with Mr. Lundswell gets him to lower the price, and Douglas begins to expect that he’ll find it even higher the next time he comes back. Frustrated and dejected, he trudges home, the notes and coins growing heavier with each step. One more present, and he’d have finished his list. He doesn’t even pause in the house, just goes to the back garden and climbs his tree to the very top. Problems have a way of looking smaller when you’re way above them.

It’s hours later, and his fingers are nearly numb with cold before he alights on the solution. It’s elegant and perfect, and he nearly falls out of the tree in his excitement. He runs into the house, confident in his knowledge and rummages around, finding what he needs exactly where he thought it was.

Douglas sprints all the way to Mr. Lundswell’s store, arriving out of breath just 20 minutes before he closes for the day. There’s a gleam in the old man’s eye that has nothing to do with Christmas spirit and everything to do with calculations of pounds, shillings, and pence. Douglas barters as hard as he has for anything in his life, and succeeds, departing for home with a shiny red engine under his arm, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue as he goes.

On Christmas morning, their mother makes them cocoa, and they lounge in the sitting room, opening gifts handed out by their mother acting as Santa. When every box is cleared, she looks down, confused, then up at her oldest son. “I’m sorry, Dougie. I’m sure I had a present for you under here somewhere. I don’t know what happened to it, let me go look.” With a hand older than his years, Douglas presses down on her shoulder. “I already opened it, Mum. It’s alright.”

She looks confused for a moment, but lets it slide, convincing herself that she just missed it in the excitement of the younger ones and the weight of grief at the coldness of her shoulder where a husband should be. And Douglas isn’t lying--he _did_ open his present. Two days before, in a too-warm shop in front of an avaricious shopkeeper, and earned exactly the eight pounds he needed for his trouble. He doesn’t regret it, though. He _can’t_ regret it, sitting there watching his siblings smile for the first time in months. He just wishes he could have done more.

It’s the first Christmas after his father’s death, and ten-year-old Douglas Richardson bears the weight of the world.


	2. A Grey Christmas

He is the youngest captain in the history of Air England, and his stripes are still so new that there are tiny gold threads sticking out from the edges where the tailor did a slapdash job of sewing them on last-minute. The airport terminal is dim and nearly empty, with garishly decorated Christmas trees sprinkled every so often and strings of grubby tinsel strung everywhere. The lack-luster decorations aren’t surprising, given not many people are eager to fly to Middle-of-Wilderness, Alaska, or wherever the hell he is right now in the middle of winter.

As if landing on icy tarmac with drunk, belligerent passengers isn’t punishment enough, a sudden winter storm has left them stranded for at least a week, if the old men with scraggly beards flying the charter planes in the next terminal are to be believed. Douglas throws his empty coffee cup in the bin with a bit more force than necessary, feeling the frustration boil up inside of him, and he wanders for something to occupy his mind. He can hear the other pilots and hosties in the lounge, but the thought of joining them ranks somewhere between a 15-hour prop flight and being eaten by a polar bear.

He finally alights on a small airport bar, tucked away out of the main thoroughfare. Douglas slides onto a seat at the corner of the bar and tosses his hat in front of him, glaring at the bartender when she comes over.

“You look like a whiskey man,” she says, and pours two fingers without any prodding.

Douglas reaches out for the glass, but is stopped by her hand on his wrist.

“Now, now, captain. If you’re supposed to be flying, I can’t let you drink.”

He gives her another sullen look. “What I’m _supposed_ to be doing,” he says, a bit more venom in his voice than he would normally allow, “Is sitting in my nice warm flat, with my girlfriend, watching as she opens her engagement ring, not sitting here in Fuck All, Alaska being treated like a child. I’m an airline captain, you know. I think I’m familiar enough with the rules on sobriety to decide whether or not I should be drinking, don’t you?”

If he expects her to be put off by his tone, he’s disappointed. Wordlessly, she slides the glass in his direction and moves on. The crowd from the pilot lounge has moved in, and the noise they’re making is enough to engage her attention. Eventually, she leaves the bottle in front of him, though not before taking his credit card to start a tab. The night wears on, and the crowd grows bigger and louder, until Douglas is pressed from all sides. But all he can think about is what he’s missing at home, and it more than he can take. If the hotels weren’t full, he’d leave. As it is, he’s resigned to a few nights spent sleeping in the terminal, at least until a bed opens up or the storm dissipates. Douglas drains his fifth glass of the evening and wanders to the hangar they’ve set up for the stranded crew and flops on the military-issue cot, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of sleeping humanity around him.

It’s the first Christmas he spends in a crowded airport, and twenty-nine-year-old Douglas Richardson has never been more alone.


	3. An Amber Christmas

The tree, as always, is decorated in the most tasteful, most fashionable coordinated scheme. At least, he thinks it is. All he can really see of it is a blur of lights and color as the world spins around him. With a muffled groan, he lets himself slide out of the overstuffed chair he’s slouched in and stretches out on the floor. There’s a small clink as one of the empty bottles of whiskey falls over into the glass he’s left on the floor, but he ignores it in favor of the buzzing in his head.

_Worthless,_ it says. _Can’t even keep a wife, or a daughter. It’s better she’s left, so you don’t spoil her. So she can have someone to be there for her. You didn’t deserve them._

The self-doubt and recriminations get to be too much, and with a groan, he reaches for another bottle, pouring with perpetually steady hands. He drinks and drinks until the words in his head lose their coherence and become just sounds, voices speaking a language he doesn’t know. There, beneath the tree his wife decorated, in the home his wife bought, wearing the clothes his wife chose, he passes out.

It’s the first Christmas after his wife takes their daughter and leaves, and thirty-eight-year-old Douglas Richardson doesn’t remember a minute of it.


	4. A Blue Christmas

This Christmas, there is no tree. Helena’s never been one for the trappings of a holiday for children and idiots, and Douglas doesn’t have it in him to argue the point. Not that it ends up mattering, since this Helena admits to her affair a mere three weeks before Christmas, and is gone when he gets home from a long flight five days later.

In her rush to leave, Helena left one present, though Douglas can’t tell if it was intentional or not. It’s a small box, addressed to him--well, to “Dougie,” but he’s long since become accustomed to suppressing the shudders at the nickname. He’s not sure if he should open it now--if he wants to see what apparently meaningless trinket of devotion she’d chosen for him, in an attempt to divert his attention from how utterly inadequate he was. From the now-unmistakable signs of her infidelity. From the hash he’s made of yet another marriage.

Douglas decides to open it, and once he’s made up his mind, there’s no point in waiting until it’s officially Christmas. Inside is a pair of cufflinks, apparently solid silver, sleek and classy like Helena had been. He almost can’t bear to look at them, but his hands and eyes have minds of their own. Further inspection reveals the tiny “D.R.” and “H.R.” engraved on them, and his throat closes up. He’s not sure whether to curse or cry, so he allows himself neither, just puts the cufflinks back in the box and settles it on the mantle. He’ll see it on to some pawn shop and use the money for something useful. Maybe a book on how not to lose wives--he could certainly use some help in that arena, since he changes partners about as often as he changes the oil filter on the Lexus.

Whatever the emotion is, it clogs his brain and seizes his throat and makes his hands itch for the cool cut glass of a whiskey tumbler. Douglas spends hours and hours on the piano, but nothing helps. His brain is intent on providing him with all the clues he missed or ignored during their marriage--enough to write a step-by-step guide to infidelity. He doesn’t sleep that night, just plays until his hands cramp, then sits on the sofa watching the light from the streetlamp outside play on the ceiling and thinks.

It’s the first Christmas after Helena’s betrayal, and fifty-three-year-old Douglas Richardson has never hated himself more.


	5. A White Christmas

In the 57 years of his life, Douglas is sure he’s spent more than half of the Christmases alone, which he thinks is a product of a pilot’s lifestyle and his own failings. It’s too much to even muster up a bit of Christmas spirit--there’s no tree in his house, no smell of gingerbread baking, not a single card or letter written that even mentions the holiday. After all, what’s the point when making the effort only drives home how perpetually, heart-achingly _alone_ he is.

However, he’s also been flying with the world’s least-successful airline for long enough to know that if he doesn’t at least show a modicum of enjoyment in the holiday, he runs the risk of incurring the dogged cheerfulness of one Arthur “Kringle” Shappey and his misguided efforts to “un-grumpy Douglas.” So, he lies, he inveigles, he exaggerates, he ignores. He tells Arthur he has plans with his daughter (though in truth, he’s not spent a Christmas with her in decades), or with old friends (there aren’t any left who haven’t given him up), or one of his siblings (whom he has completely lost contact with). 

But, Arthur Shappey, contrary to popular, uninformed opinion, is not stupid. He’s worked with Douglas in close quarters for too many years to be completely taken in by his lies, especially when his eyes go that deep, dark color that means he’s building walls inside his head to keep them out. So, he asks questions. No one at the airfield has any plans with Douglas, or knows what his plans are. They all assume he’ll do something--Douglas isn’t the type to be alone if he doesn’t want to be, after all. How could he be, with that personality? Arthur isn’t so convinced, especially when he sees the look on his mother’s face when she tells Douglas they’ll be flying on Christmas, just to wind him up a bit. Douglas doesn’t take the bait, just argues a bit _pro forma_ , almost as if he’s reading from a script. He’s a good actor, but even he is no match for an Arthur on a mission.

He waits until Herc gets to his house, to keep Carolyn company, then disappears to his room, careful not to mention anything to either of them. Arthur isn’t sure _why_ Douglas dislikes Herc so much, but it’s obvious he _does_ , so it’s better if the two of them don’t mix if the object is a happy Douglas. 

When he gets to Douglas’s house, it’s dark and cold outside, and doesn’t look much more inviting inside. Arthur can see Douglas through the sitting room window, lounging with a book in front of the fireplace. He knocks hesitantly, then waits. His patience is rewarded by the sight of a very comfortable, if tired-looking, Douglas.

“Arthur?” he asks, brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Douglas,” he chirps. “Happy Christmas!” And he pushes his way into Douglas’s house.

“Happy Christmas,” he answers, a bit distracted. “Arthur…”

Arthur turns around and holds out a box. “I know you said you had plans, but I brought your present over anyway.” He looks around. “What happened to your daughter, and the friends from Air England?”

Douglas takes the package from him and set sit on the table. “Fell through, I’m afraid.” He gives Arthur a small mile. “Hazard of grown-up life, I’m afraid.” A short pause. “You’re welcome to stay if you like, though I’m not really set up for guests.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Arthur replies, shrugging off his coat and tossing it on the table. “I can do it. I know where things are. Do you want a coffee? Or a tea? Or something else?”

“Arthur,” Douglas rubs at the bridge of his nose. “ _You_ don’t serve _me_. _I_ serve _you_. It’s my house.”

Arthur is already headed for the kitchen. “No, I know, I just really like making tea and coffee. Especially at yours, since you have that really posh coffee maker, with the little pods. It’s like a surprise every time!”

Douglas opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. “Fine, just a coffee, please.” He sits at the table and watches as Arthur works with the same confidence he does in the galley, though to slightly better effect. _One drink_ he promises himself. _One drink and then I’ll send him home._ But, he underestimates the restorative effect an Arthur has on a Douglas at Christmas time, and one drink turns into two, into four, then Douglas cooking dinner and Arthur choosing movies. It’s nearly midnight by the time Arthur passes out on the sofa, in the middle of something black and white Douglas didn’t even know he owned. It’s one thing they share, this love of old black and white movies, though for different reasons. Douglas likes the romance of it all, though he’d never admit it. Arthur enjoys the opportunity to use his imagination, to figure what color things in the movie actually were, and the results he shares with Douglas lead to hours of hilarity. And although Arthur can’t take away the pain of the past, he provides a shining glimpse of a possible future, and that’s enough for one night..

It’s the first Christmas he spends with his MJN family, and fifty-seven-year-old Douglas Richardson has never felt more at peace.


End file.
